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do you

"Oh, that! Certainly . . . significantly significant . . . indicates that I shouldn't expect to park a Lincoln in a city full of Volkswagens drive, Doctor. . . parking is tragic in this neighborhood."

"Very well young lady-man!" Dr. Patewaner corrected himself. "Please lie on the couch and make yourself comfortable. I'd like to take down your particulars."

I'll bet you would, Cass thought as she repressed a grin, sat and swung her legs up turning to flop against the raised back of the couch. As an afterthought she reached forward, took off her shoes and dropped one beside the couch; she suspended the other over the floor by its heel on her outstretched index finger and let it swing from side to side. From her almost horizontal position she could see only Dr. Patewaner's right shoe in order to see his face she would have to raise herself on her right elbow and turn her head.

"Relax," said the doctor his pencil noisily scratching on a steno- graphic pad. "How old are you?”

"I am relaxed," Cass replied, smiling inwardly at the triteness of it all, "and you shouldn't ask a lady her age," she added. Her gaze wander- ed about the strangely quiet room as she waited for him to continue whatever it was that he was going to continue, and her attention was drawn to the doctor's shoe which occasionally twitched unrhythmically off to her right. "Why do you wear shoes with built-in lifts, Doctor Adler's aren't they?"

The doctor ignored Cass' question, paused momentarily and then: "Tell me why you came to see me!”

—

"Because father sent... almost forced me my Cass swung her own shoe back and forth. "You know you shouldn't be concerned about being short like lots of men are below average in stature and they don't all go around in Adler's things."

"Why do you suppose your father sent you?”

"Probably because he can't cut . . doesn't like the way I dress. He has this thing about clothes

short?"

M

do you think you won't make it if you're

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